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^j> f ranit ^'empster ^feeanan 

LYRICS OF JOY. Crown 8vo, l^i.oo, net. Postage extra. 

LITTLE-FOLK LYRICS. With i6 full-page illustrations. lamo, 
gilt top, $1.50. 

LYRICS FOR A LUTE. i8mo, cloth or parchment paper, $1.00. 

Boston and New York 


•^ra^r<.^e^^tf^^.<^«V/^ ^J/Uy^r^^sk^t'*^' 

One hundred and fifty copies of the first edition 

signed by the author and bound uncut 

with paper label 








(Cte It^iVietiJiDe pre??, CambnD0E 



Published October iqo4 





"^Confession 3 

Witchery 4 

Dies Ultima 5 

A Tear Bottle 7 

The Day's Shroud 9 

A Sea Ghost 10 

A Bird's Elegy 11 

Secret 12 

The Poet 13 

The Charm 14 

His Desire 15 

The Muse 17 

The Interpreter 19 

Harro 20 

With Herrick 23 

Canoe Song 25 

A Garland 27 

A Prayer 30 


The Year's Day 33 

Arbutus 34 

[ vii ] 

Violet 35 

April 37 

Bacchus 39 

May Morning 41 

Honeysuckles .42 

Winter Dreams 43 

White Magic 44 

Footprints in the Snow 45 

Nantucket 47 

Dawn and Dusk 51 

LOVE : — 

To Juliet 55 

Rose Lore 57 

On Some Buttercups 59 

The Bower of Cupid 60 

Moonlight and Music 63 

In Absence . ' 65 


Love's Springtide 69 

To Her 70 

My April . • 71 

A May Madrigal 73 

Nocturne 75 

Memories 77 

A Song's Echo 78 

[ viii ] 

With Roses 79 

Two Songs 80 


Saint Rose 83 

Surf Music 84 

To a Mocking Bird 85 

Music 86 

The Shower 87 

To a Butterfly in Wall Street .... 88 

The Winter Pool .89 

Betrayal 90 

The Snow's Dreamer 91 

The Cathedral Bells 92 


Dawn 95 

Storm 95 

Dusk 95 

Starlight 96 

A Sea Fancy 96 

Mastery 96 

Derelict 97 

Fog 97 

The Penalty 97 

Life 98 

The Goal 98 

Knowledge 98 

[ ix ] 

In a Garden 99 

Ivy 99 

Grass 99 

Rose 100 

Day Dream 100 

Fire Fancies .100 

City Sparrows loi 

Writ in Water loi 

Contrast loi 

The Quatrain 102 

A Wish 102 

[ X 3 




When I was young I made a vow 
To keep youth in my heart as long 

As there were birds upon the bough 
To gladden me with song : 

To learn what lessons Life might give, 

To do my duty as I saw, 
To love my friends, to laugh and live 

Not holding Death in awe. 

So all my lyrics sing of joy. 

And shall until my lips are mute ; 

In old age happy as the boy 
To whom God gave the lute. 

C 3 ] 


Out of the purple drifts, 

From the shadow sea of night, 

On tides of musk a moth uplifts 
Its weary wings of white. 

Is it a dream or ghost 

Of a dream that comes to me, 
Here in the twilight on the coast, 

Blue cinctured by the sea ? 

Fashioned of foam and froth — 

And the dream is ended soon. 
And, lo, whence came the moon-white moth 

Comes now the moth-white moon ! 

C 4 ] 


White in her woven shroud, 

Silent she Ues, 
Deaf to the trumpets loud 

Blown through the skies ; 
Never a sound can mar 

Her slumber long : 
She is a faded star, — 

A finished song ! 

Over her hangs the sun, 

A golden glow ; 
Round her the planets run, 

She does not know ; 
For neither gloom nor gleam 

Can reach her sight : 
She is a broken dream, — 

A dead delight ! 

[ 5 ] 

No voice can waken her 

Again to sing ; 
She nevermore will stir 

To feel the spring ; 
Through the dim ether hurled 

Till Time shall tire, 
She is a wasted world, — 

A frozen fire ! 

[ 6 ] 


Glass, wherein a Greek girl's tears 
Once were gathered as they fell, 

After these, two thousand years 
Is there still no tale to tell ? 

Buried with her, in her mound 
She is dust long since, but you 

Only yesterday were found 
Iridescent as the dew, — 

Fashioned faultlessly, a form 

Graceful as was hers whose cheek 

Once against you made you warm 
While you heard her sorrow speak. 

At your lips I listen long 

For some whispered word of her, 
For some ghostly strain of song 

In your haunted heart to stir : 

[ 7 ] 

But your crystal lips are dumb, 
Hushed the music in your heart : 

Ah, if she could only come 
Back again and bid it start ! 

Long is Art, but Life how brief ! 

And the end seems so unjust : — 
This companion of her grief 

Here to-day, while she- is dust ! 

[ 8 ] 


From sunrise to the set of sun 
The Winds went to and fro, 

Singing the while they deftly spun 
A garment white like snow. 

And in the dusk, unto the west 
They bore the robe of cloud. 

And for the grave the dead Day dressed 
Within this snowy shroud. 

Then, slowly vanishing from sight, 

I heard them softly sing, 
And saw above the grave at night 

The stars all blossoming. 

[ 9 ] 


All night I heard along the coast 

The sea her grief outpour ; 
And with the dawn arose a ghost 

To haunt the furrowed shore. 

And when from out the gray mist rolled 

The sun above the town, 
A shipwrecked sailor came and told 

Of how the ship went down. 

Then did I sudden understand 

The sobbing of the sea, 
And of that white ghost on the sand 

I knew the mystery. 

[ lo ] 


He was the first to welcome Spring ; 

Adventurous, he came 
To wake the dreaming buds and sing 

The crocus into flame. 

He loved the morning and the dew ; 

He loved the sun and rain; 
He fashioned lyrics as he flew 

With love for their refrain. 

Poet of vines and blossoms, he ; 

Beloved of them all ; 
The timid leaves upon the tree 

Grew bold at his glad call. 

He sang the rapture of the hills. 
And from the starry height 

He brought the melody that fills 
The meadows with delight. 

And now, behold him dead, alas ! 

Where he made joy so long : 
A bit of blue amid the grass, — 

A tiny, broken song. 

[ II ] 


Softly the little wind goes by, 
A whisper, — nothing more ; 

Some message from the azure sky 
Brought down to earth's green door. 

Fragrant and fresh the wonder-word, 
But what it means, who knows ? 

Only the butterfly, the bird. 
The leaf, the grass and rose. 

Theirs the divine felicity, 

The gift of wisdom rare. 
The melody, the mystery. 

The secret of the air. 

[ 12 ] 


Voice of the wind, of singing brook and bird, 
Dawn's message white and midnight's word, 
These secrets all belong 
Unto his song. 

For Nature to the poet's heart alone 
Makes her mysterious meanings known : 
He is her voice and her 
Interpreter ! 

[ '3 ] 


Slight is the thing it needs to wake 
The embers that have slumbered long 

Within the poet's heart, and make 
Them burn again with song. 

A rose, a star, a voice, a glance. 
Echo or glimpse, — it is the same ; 

Some mystery of time or chance 
That finds the hidden flame. 

Embers of song and song's desire, 
Hushed in the singer's heart they lie. 

And softly kindle into fire 
If but a dream go by. 

And none may say, since none can know, 
Whence comes the vivifying spark 

That sends a transitory glow 
Of song across the dark. 

It is a secret summons, such 

As comes unto the spray when spring 
Wakens the blossoms with a touch, 

That bids the poet, Sing ! 
[ 14 ] 


Of all the threads of rhyme 
Which I have spun, 

I shall be glad if Time 
Save only one. 

And I would have each word 

To joy belong — 
A lyric like a bird 

Whose soul is song. 

There is enough of grief 

To mar the years ; 
Be mine a sunny leaf, 

Untouched by tears, 

To bring unto the heart 

Delight, and make 
All sorrows to depart, 

And joy to wake. 

[ 'S ] 

No sermon mine to preach, 

Save happiness ; 
No lesson mine to teach, 

Save joy to bless. 

Joy, 't is the one best thing 

Below, above : 
The lute's divinest string, 

Whose note is love. 

[ i6 ] 


The songs I make, they are not mine, 

They all belong to her 
Whose words in some strange way combine 

To set my heart astir. 

If but her eyes look down on me 

The while I pause to write, 
By some swift touch of sorcery 

The sombre lines grow bright. 

Her voice upon me lays a spell 

Of music soft and sweet ; 
Imperfectly, what she may tell, 

My lyrics but repeat. 

I am as one who hears the thrush 

In some leaf covert dim, 
And in the intermittent hush 

Ponders the dew-fresh hymn : 

[ 17 ] 

Or one who in a shadowed place 

Watches the stars agleam 
And knows their beauty on his face 

Illumining his dream : 

Or one who catches from the rose 

A fragrant message sent 
From crimson lips and straightway knows 

All of the Orient. 

Like these am I, and all my rhymes 

Are but the records clear 
That write themselves at magic times 

When she, the Muse, is near. 

For could I make my own her song. 

Unto the world I 'd give 
A lyric which should live as long 

As song itself shall live ! 

[ i8 ] 


Not his alone the gift divine 
Who understands how, line by line, 
To re-create the dream with all 
Its wonder-world ethereal : 
Something of that same gift has he 
Who, reading, through the lines can see 
The dream itself, — the secret thing 
That stirred the poet's heart to sing. 

[ 19 ] 


This is brave Harrds story^ 
Harro who watched the sea : 

To his renow7i I set it down 
As it was told to me. 

Back from the reef-caught vessel 
Came Harro's comrades four, 

And with them ten half-perished men 
Safe landed on the shore. 

** And are these all ? " asked Harro. 

Answered the sailors brave ; 
" Nay. One lashed high we left to die, 

And find an ocean grave." 

Cried Harro : " Who goes with me 

To rescue him, the last. 
Alive or dead } Shall it be said 

We left one on the mast } " 

Spoke up his gray-haired mother : 
" Oh, Harro boy, my son, 
Go not, I pray ! 'T is death they say. 
And there is only one ! 

" Father and brother Uwe 
The cruel sea hath slain. 
My last art thou. Good Harro, now- 
Let me not plead in vain ! " 

Answered brave Harro : " Mother, 
Who knows, perchance for him 

Under the skies a mother's eyes 
To-day with tears grow dim. 

" Farewell ! God watches over 
The fields of flying foam, 
And He shall keep us on the deep, 
And safely bring us home." 

Wild was the storm -swept ocean. 

And like a fragile leaf 
The lifeboat tossed long ere it crossed 

Unto the distant reef. 

[ 21 ] 

Wild was the sea, and madly 

Ever the tempest blew, 
While down the track came Harro back 

With one beside the crew. 

Hard to the oars his comrades 

Bent in the shrieking gale ; 
And Harro cried, when land he spied, 
"Thank God, we shall not fail ! " 

And when he saw his mother 

Pacing the shore in tears, 
Loud over all the storm his call 

Brought gladness to her ears. 

Over and over he shouted. 
And high his cap he waved : 
" God gives thee joy ! God sends thy boy ! 
'T is Uwe we have saved ! " 

Such is brave Harrd s story ^ 
Harro who watched the sea : 

To his renown I set it down 
As it was told to me. 

[ " ] 


In the green woods is the brook, 
Like a lyric in his book, 
Singing as it sHps along 
Tender strains of sylvan song. 
Carol of the thrush's throat 
Echoes in its liquid note ; 
Murmur of the woodland bee 
Haunts its drowsy melody ; 
And its music, soft and low. 
Mimics all the gales that go 
Whispering in boughs of green 
Spread above it like a screen. 
O'er its brink the lily, white 
As the risen moon at night, 
Leans in rapture, listening 
To the song it has to sing. 
Like a maiden who for love 
From her lattice leans above. 
Drinking in the song that slips 
Through the shadows from the lips 
Of her lover in the gloom, 
So above the brook this bloom 
[ 23 ] 

Leans to hear the message sweet 

That her lover may repeat. 

Loitering beside the stream, 

Is it strange that I should dream — 

Dream of Herrick, and of Her 

For whose eyes his lyrics were ? 

Julia, — she this lily is, 

And the brook's songs all are his ! 

[ 24 ] 


Gracefulest of buoyant things, 
Wanting but the snowy wings 
Of your kin, the swan, to be 
Queen of both the sky and sea ; 
Softly down the tranquil stream. 
As through slumber glides a dream, 
With the current let us go 
Where the slim reeds, row on row, 
Make sweet music all day long. 
And the air is full of song. 

Silent as the red man, who 
Out of birch-bark fashioned you. 
Steal along and come upon 
Hosts of water-lilies wan 
Suddenly, and bring surprise 
To their wonder-waking eyes ; 
Then be off again once more. 
Shadow-like, and haunt the shore. 
Gathering from bending grass 
Water secrets as you pass. 

[ 25 ] 

On and on and on we drift 
Till the stars begin to sift 
Through the twilight and, on high, 
At her window in the sky- 
Comes the Night's pale bride to hark 
For his message through the dark ; 
Till at last the silver sand 
Reaches down and bids us land, 
Then till dawn, farewell to you — 
Sister of the swan — Canoe ! 

[ 26 ] 


Let me a garland twine 
For poets nine, 

Whose verse 
I love best to rehearse. 

For each a laurel leaf, 
One stanza brief, 
I make 
For memory's sweet sake. 

First, then, Theocritus, 
Whose song for us 
Still yields 
The fragrance of the fields. 

Next, Horace, singing yet 
Of love, regret. 

And flowers : 
This Roman rose is ours. 

[ 27 ] 

Omar-Fitzgerald next, 
Within whose text 
There lies 
A charm to win the wise. 

Then Shakespeare, by whose light 
All poets write : 
The star 
Whose satellites they are ! 

Herrick then let me name. 
Whose lyrics came 
Like birds 
To sing his happy words. 

Then Keats, whose jewel rhyme 
Shines for all time, 
To tell 
Of him the gods loved well. 

Longfellow next I choose : 
For him the muse 
Held up 
Song's over-brimming cup. 

[ 28 ] 

Next Tennyson, whose song, 
Still clear and strong, 
Soars high, 
Nearing each day the sky. 

Then Aldrich — like a thrush 
In the dawn's flush, 
Who sings 
With dew upon his wings. 

These are the nine, above 
Whose leaves I love 
To lean, 
My happiness to glean. 

Theirs are the books that hold 
Joy's clearest gold 
For me, 
Wrought into melody ; 

Theirs are the words to start 
Within my heart 
The fire 
Of song and song's desire ! 

[ 29 ] 


It is my joy in life to find 
At every turning of the road, 

The strong arm of a comrade kind 
To help me onward with my load. 

And since I have no gold to give, 
And love alone must make amends, 

My only prayer is, while I live, — 
God make me worthy of my friends ! 

[ 30 ] 



After the winter's night 

From the world is withdrawn, 

Out of the darkness gleams the light, — 
Spring — and the Year's fresh dawn. 

Blossom and leaf and bud. 

And the birds all in tune ; 
Then in a fragrant, golden flood, — 

Summer — the Year's glad noon. 

Crimson the roses blow. 

And the grove's breath is musk : 
Then to the Year the sunset glow, — 

Autumn — and hints of dusL 

Glimmer the stars of frost. 

And the wind at the door 
Mournfully sings of something lost : — 

Winter — and night once more. 

[ 33 ] 


Along the woods' brown edge 
The wind goes wandering 

To find the first pink pledge — 
The hint of Spring. 

The withered leaves around, 

She scatters every one, 
And gives to wintry ground 

A glimpse of sun. 

And to the woodland dumb 

And desolate so long 
She calls the birds to come 

With happy song. 

Then the arbutus ! This 

The pledge, the hint she sought, — 
The blush, the breath, the kiss, — 

Spring's very thought ! 

[ 34 ] 


In this white world of wonder 

All wrapt in silence deep, 
Shut in her palace under 

The snow she lies asleep ; 
And she shall only waken 

When lyrics sweet and clear 
Out of the trees are shaken, 

And April 's here. 

Glimpses of grass and gleams of 

The golden sunlight bring 
Visions of joy and dreams of 

The miracle of Spring : 
She sees the shining faces 

Of buds and leaves appear, 
Lighting the shadowed spaces 

With April's here ! 

[ 35 ] 

Then, O the nameless rapture 

Of that warm touch at last, 
When April comes to capture 

And hold her fragrance fast ! 
The dream of winter broken, 

Behold her, blue and dear, 
Shy Violet, sure token 

That April 's here ! 

[ 36 ] 


After the silence long 

On valley and hill, 
Listen, — again the song 

Of the silver rill ! 

Vanishes from the plains 
The prison of snow ; 

Broken the crystal chains. 
And the captives go ; 

Over the Winter's tomb 
The bird in its mirth 

Carols of bud and bloom 
To the barren earth ; 

Tremble the vines and trees 

With ecstasy then, 
Hearing the lisping breeze 

Hint of Spring again. 

[ 37 ] 

Mystery fills the air, 

And melody sweet 
Follows the pathways where 

Glimmer Spring's white feet. 

Over the meadow's floor 
She hastens, and — see ! 

April is at the door 
With her golden key ! 

[ 38 ] 


Listen to the tawny thief 
Hid behind the waxen leaf, 
Growling at his fairy host, 
Bidding her with angry boast 
Fill his cup with wine distilled 
From the dew the dawn has spilled 
Stored away in golden casks 
Is the precious draught he asks. 

Who, — who makes this mimic din 
In this mimic meadow inn, 
Sings in such a drowsy note, 
Wears a golden-belted coat, 
Loiters in the dainty room 
Of this tavern of perfume, 
Dares to linger at the cup 
Till the yellow sun is up ? 

[ 39 ] 

It is Bacchus come again 
To the busy haunts of men ; 
Garlanded and gayly dressed, 
Bands of gold about his breast ; 
Straying from his paradise 
Having pinions, angel-wise, — 
'T is the honey-bee, who goes 
Reveling within a rose 1 

C 40 ] 


What magic flutes are these that make 

Sweet melody at dawn, 
And stir the dewy leaves to shake 

Their silver on the lawn ? 

What miracle of music wrought 
In shadowed groves is this ? 

All ecstasy of sound upcaught, — 
Song's apotheosis ! 

The dreaming lilies lift their heads 

To listen and grow wise ; 
The fragrant roses from their beds 

In sudden beauty rise : 

Enraptured, on the eastern hill, 

A moment, halts the sun ; 
Day breaks ; and all again is still : 

The thrushes' song is done ! 

[ 41 ] 


Within a belfry built of bloom, 
Above the garden wall they swing ; 
A chime of bells for winds to ring, 

Of mingled music and perfume. 

What scented syllables of song 

Throughout the day their tongues repeat ! 

They tempt with promise, honey-sweet, 
The listener to linger long. 

A bit of sunset cloud astray. 

The dappled butterfly floats near. 
Lured by the fragrant music clear. 

Trembles with joy, then fades away. 

And thither oft, from time to time, 
The humming-bird and golden bee, 
List, and go mad with melody, — 

The honey-music of the chime. 

And thither when the silver gleam 

Of moon and stars is over all, 

One white moth hovers near the wall, — 
A ghost to haunt the garden's dream ! 
[ 42 ] 


Deep lies the snow on wood and field ; 

Gray stretches overhead the sky ; 
The streams, their lips of laughter sealed, 

In silence wander slowly by. 

Earth slumbers, and her dreams, — who knows 
But they may sometimes be like ours ? 

Lyrics of spring in winter's prose 
That sing of buds and leaves and flowers ; 

Dreams of that day when from the south 
Comes April, as at first she came. 

To hold the bare twig to her mouth 
And blow it into fragrant flame. 

[ 43 ] 


When Winter hushes for a time 

The music of the sylvan brook, 
And shuts its witchery of rhyme 

In her white book, 

The world is not yet dumb ; 
For in the snow-hung vines and trees 

With their cold blossoms, icy clear. 
Invisible the winds like bees 

Swarm, and I hear 

Their weird and wizard hum. 

Such is the magic wand she wields 

That she can shape my fancy so 
My dreams are all of fragrant fields 

The wild bees know 

In summer's golden noon ; 
And through the dull December hours 

Mine is the month for which I long, — 
The barren branch grows bright with flowers 

Where the bees throng, — 

White magic, — winter June ! 

[ 44 ] 


Worn is the winter rug of white, 

And in the snow-bare spots once more 

Glimpses of faint green grass in sight, — 
Spring's footprints on the floor. 

Upon the sombre forest gates 
A crimson flush the mornings catch, 

The token of the Spring who waits 
With finger on the latch. 

Blow, bugles of the south, and win 

The warders from their dreams too long. 

And bid them let the new guest in 
With her glad hosts of song. 

She shall make bright the dismal ways 
With broideries of bud and bloom. 

With music fill the nights and days 
And end the garden's gloom. 

[ 45 ] 

Her face is lovely with the sun ; 

Her voice — ah, listen to it now ! 
The silence of the year is done : 

The bird is on the bough ! 

Spring here, — by what magician's touch ? 

'T was winter scarce an hour ago. 
And yet I should have guessed as much, — 

Those footprints in the snow ! 

[ 46 ] 


Dear old Nantucket's isle of sand, 
An ancient exile from the Land, — 
Free from the devastating hand 

Of pomp and pillage, 
I find it year by year with all 
Its white-winged fleet of cat-boats small 
Guarding what Fancy loves to call 

The violet village. 

The yellow cliffs, the houses white, 
The wind-mill with its wheel in sight, 
The church spire and the beacons bright, 

All bunched together ; 
How picturesque they are ! How fair ! 
And, O how fragrant is the air, 
With pink wild-roses everywhere 

And purple heather ! 

[ 47 ] 

Half foreign seems the little town, — 
The narrow streets, the tumble-down 
And rotting wharves whose past renown 

Is linked with whalers, — 
The roofs with Look-outs whence they saw 
In bygone days the big ships draw 
Homeward with oil, and watched with awe 

The sea-worn sailors : 

Half foreign, but the better half 
Is like the flag that from the staff 
Flings out its welcome, starry laugh, — 

Native completely ; 
The shops, the schools, the zigzag lines 
Of shingled dwellings hung with vines. 
And gardens wrought in quaint designs 

And smelling sweetly. 

Here one may wander forth and meet 
Skippers of eighty years whose feet 
Find youth yet in the paven street ; 

And if one hunger 
For yarns of wrecks and water lore. 
Pass the tobacco round once more. 
And hear what happened long before, 

When he was younger. 

[ 48 ] 

Enchanting tales of wind and wave, 
Witty, pathetic, gay and grave, — 
One listens in the merman's cave 

Enraptured, breathless, 
While from the gray, bewhiskered lips 
Come stories of the sea and ships ; 
The careful skipper never skips 

The legends deathless. . 

Then out again, and let us go 

Where fresh and cool the breezes blow 

Over the dunes of Pocomo, 

Where bird and berry 
Conspire to lure us on until, 
Over the gently sloping hill. 
We see Wauwinet, white and still 

And peaceful very. 

Here is the ending of the quest ; 
Here, on this Island of the Blest, 
Is found at last the Port of Rest, — 

Remote, romantic : 
A land-flower broken from the stem, 
And few indeed there be of them 
Fitted so perfectly to gem 

The blue Atlantic. 
[ 49 ] 

Dreamy, delicious, drowsy, dull, — 

A poppy-island beautiful ; 

And there are poppies here to cull 

Until the plunder 
Provokes the soul to sleep and dream 
Amid the glamour and the gleam. 
And makes the world about us seem 

A world of wonder ! 

C 50 ] 


Slender strips of crimson sky 
Near the dim horizon lie, 
Shot across with golden bars 
Reaching to the fading stars ; 
Soft the balmy west wind blows 
Wide the portals of the rose ; 
Smell of dewy pine and fir, 
Lisping leaves and vines astir ; 
On the borders of the dark 
Gayly sings the meadow-lark, 
Bidding all the birds assemble, — 
Hark, the heavens seem to tremble ! 
Suddenly the sunny gleams 
Break the poppy-fettered dreams, — 

Dreams of Pan, with two feet cloven, 
Piping to the nymph and faun 

Who with wreaths of ivy woven 
Nimbly dance to greet the dawn. 

[ SI ] 

Shifting shadows indistinct ; 

Leaves and branches, crossed and linked, 

Cling like children and embrace, 

Frightened at the moon's pale face : 

In the gloomy wood begins 

Noise of insect violins ; 

Swarms of fireflies flash their lamps 

In their atmospheric camps, 

And the sad-voiced whippoorwill 

Echoes back from hill to hill. 

Liquid clear above the crickets 

Chirping in the thorny thickets. 

Weary eyelids, eyes that weep. 

Wait the magic touch of sleep ; 

While the dew in silence falling 
Fills the air with scent of musk, 

And this lonely night-bird calling 
Drops a note down through the dusk. 

[ 52 ] 



{Cum regnat rosa) 

Heedless how it may fare with Time, 
I send you here a rose of rhyme : 
Its fragrance, love ; its color, one 
Caught from Hope's ever-constant sun ; 
Upon each leaf a lyric writ — 
Your eyes alone may witness it ; 
And in its heart for you to see 
Another heart — the heart of me. 

All roses are as fitly worn 

By you as by your sister Morn, 

Since you, Hke Morn, fail not to give 

New beauty to them while they live. 

If this against your bosom rest 

One brief, sweet hour its life were blest ; 

Then, should you chance to cast it by. 

It would not find it hard to die. 

[ 55 ] 

So take this bloom of love and song, 
And, be its life or brief or long, 
Know that for you the petals part, 
Disclosing all its lyric heart ; 
For you its fragrant breaths are drawn ; 
For you its color — love's glad dawn ; 
And for you, too, the heart that goes 
Song-prisoned in this rhyme of rose ! 

[ S6 ] 


Now since it knows 
My heart so well, 

Would that this rose 
Might speak and tell ! 

You could not scorn 
Its winsome grace, 

The blush of morn 
Upon its face. 

Unto your own 

You needs must press 
The sweet mouth prone 

To tenderness ; 

Then, lip to lip, 

With rapture stirred, 
You might let slip 

The secret word, 

[ 57 ] 

With fragrant kiss 

The dream of bliss 

The rose would bring. 

Then to your breast 

Take it to be 
Your own heart's best 

Love-augury, — 
A welcome guest, — 

To gladden me. 

[ S8 ] 


A LITTLE way below her chin, 

Caught in her bosom's snowy hem, 

Some buttercups are fastened in, — 
Ah, how I envy them ! 

They do not miss their meadow place. 
Nor are they conscious that their skies 

Are not the heavens but her face, 
Her hair and tender eyes. 

There, in the downy meshes pinned, 
Such sweet illusions haunt their rest, 

They think her breath the gentle wind 
And tremble on her breast ; 

As if, close to her heart, they heard 
A captive secret slip its cell, 

And with desire were sudden stirred 
To find a voice and tell. 

[ 59 ] 


Whoso enters at this portal 
Shall find Love the one immortal. 
Green the grove that hides the grotto 
Over which is hung this motto ; 
Broidered paths of bloom and berry- 
Lead unto the monarch merry ; 
Birds above on leafy branches 
Loosen lyric avalanches ; 
Bees go singing in the sunny, 
Blossom-builded haunts of honey ; 
Flutes of brooks and lutes of grasses 
Waken with each wind that passes ; 
All is fragrance, song and joy, 
Made for one immortal boy ! 

Many seek this grotto hidden ; 
Welcome all, and none forbidden. 
Soft the air and clear as amber ; 
Round the gate red roses clamber ; 
Day long, mirth and music fill it ; 
Night sends moon and star to thrill it. 
Voices, visions, dreams of rapture. 
There await, the heart to capture ; 

[ 60 ] 

Full it is of faultless faces — 
All the Muses and the Graces ; 
Poem, picture, flower and fancy, 
Every form of necromancy ; 
Naught to worry or annoy. 
Save the one immortal boy ! 

In this grotto lies the golden 
Guest-book, full of legends olden, 
Writ by lovers on its pages 
Since the daybreak of the ages ; 
Paris, Helen, Petrarch, Laura, 
Meleager, Heliodora, 
All the glorious Amante 
Sung of old by Tuscan Dante, 
Names that shine in song and story 
Crowd this volume with their glory, 
Tokens left by all the lovers 
In the world, between the covers ; 
Yet the record cannot cloy 
Love, the one immortal boy. 

Eve in Eden, fresh and pearly, 
Found on Earth this grotto early ; 
So, it came forever after 
To be haunted by her laughter. 
[ 6i ] 

What a countless throng have tasted 
Love therein ere life was wasted ! 
Blind they call the boy, in kindness, 
Yet is theirs the only blindness. 
He is sure of ear and vision, 
Hearts he matches with precision ; 
That is Cupid's only duty 
In this bower of bliss and beauty — 
That the end of all employ 
Is for one immortal boy ! 

[ 62 ] 


Dear Heart, do you remember 

That summer by the sea, 
One blue night m September 

When you were here with me, 
How like a pearl uplifted 
The full moon rose and drifted, 
And how the shadows shifted 
Until the stars were free ? 

Along the beach the breakers 

Brought in their lavish store, 
Gathered from ocean acres, 

And strewed the curving shore ; 
Grasses that gleamed and glistened. 
Flowers that the sea had christened, 
Shells at whose lips you listened 
To learn their wonder-lore. 

Softly the breeze blew over 
From groves and gardens fair, 

Spilling a scent of clover 
Into the balmy air ; 
[ 63 ] 

The breath of pines around us, 
Fragrant it came and found us 
Just as the moonlight crowned us 
And Love at last came there. 

What music hailed our rapture ! 

What singers on the sand 
Were they whose hearts could capture 

Our joy and understand ? 
O Wind and Wave, they guessed it. 
They sang it and confessed it, — 
Their love and ours, — and blessed it 

There on the moonlit strand ! 

Dear Heart, still sweet the story, 
For all the years gone by : 

Still floods the moon with glory 
The land, the sea, the sky : 

And still the night-moth hovers 

Around us and discovers 

The same devoted lovers, — 
Wind, Wave, and You and I. 

[ 64 ] 


It matters not how far I fare, 

Or in what land I bide, 
Your voice sings ever on the air, 

Your face shines at my side. 

For me each crimson flower that slips 

Its velvet sheath of green 
Yields the remembrance of your lips 

With all their sweets between. 

Your hair is in the dusk that lies 

Around me when I rest ; 
My only stars are your dear eyes. 

Love's own and loveliest. 

Happy am I, though far apart 
From all that makes life dear : 

Love dwells contented in my heart. 
Exiled yet always near. 

[ 65 ] 

Then take my message, Sweet, and know 

How far your love has flown 
To cheer and bless your lover, so 

Lonely, but not alone : 

I send it from the drowsy South, 

A dream of my delight, 
A message to your rosebud mouth — 

A kiss, and a good-night ! 

[ 66 ] 



My heart was winter-bound until 

I heard you sing : 
O voice of Lovgy hush not, but fill 

My life with Spring ! 

My hopes were homeless things before 

I saw your eyes : 
O smile of Love ^ close not the door 

To paradise ! 

My dreams were bitter once, and then 

I found them bliss : 
O lips of Love, give me again 

Your rose to kiss ! 

Springtide of love ! The secret sweet 

Is ours alone : 
O heart of Love, at last you beat 

Against my own ! 

[ 69 ] 


My songs are all for her 

Whose love I fain would win : 

Each to her heart, a wanderer, 
Goes singing : Let me in ! 

Her eyes my beacons be, 
Her lips my rosy guides, 

And in her heart a melody 
For every word abides. 

Be brave, be brave, my song, 
Nor falter in the quest : 

Love in her heart has waited long 
To greet the singing guest. 

And be it yours to know 
The latch lift on the door ; 

Once in her heart — Go, lyric, go ! 
Be hers for evermore ! 

[ 7° ] 


Sweetheart, comes laughing April now 

To right the Winter's wrong ; 
And back to the forsaken bough 

The bluebird comes with song : 
And, rivals of the stars above. 

Stars in the grass you see ; 
So, like your namesake, April, Love — 

My April, come to me ! 

She brings the blossom to the vine, 

A token fresh and new ; 
She fills the crocus cup with wine, 

A pledge that she is true ; 
She sends the sunshine after rain, 

A golden augury : 
Sweetheart, and must I plead in vain ? 

My April, come to me ! 

[ 7' ] 

Oh, Winter lies upon my heart 

A dreariness and woe : 
It needs but your dear smile to start 

The buds of hope to blow ; 
It needs but your sweet lips to bring 

The message that shall be 
Like April's own, all love and Spring 

My April, come to me ! 

[ 7^ ] 


Sweetheart, the buds are on the tree, 

The birds are back once more. 
And with their songs they call to me 

To open wide my door : 
So wide shall stand the door to-day 

Because my heart is true 
To bud and bird, to mirth and May, 

And, most of all, to You ! 

Sweetheart, the leaves begin to show. 

The grass is green again. 
And on the breeze sweet odors blow 

From wild flowers in the glen : 
The world is glad with voice and wing, 

And all the skies are blue ; 
The scent, the song, the soul of Spring, 

I find them all in You ! 

[ 73 ] 

Sweetheart, the snows have gone, and now 

It is the mating time. 
Hark to the lover on the bough, 

What melody sublime ! 
What ecstasy of passion, pride, 

And love and rapture, too ! 
So door and heart stand open wide 

To welcome May and You ! 

[ 74 ] 


Above the sea in splendor 

The new moon hangs alone, 
A silver crescent slender 
Set in a sapphire zone ; 
Around me breathe the tender, 
Sweet zephyrs of the south : 
Night will not let 
My heart forget 
Her kisses and her mouth. 

The loose sails idly swinging, 

The ship lights' glow and gleam, 
The bell-buoys' muffled ringing, 

Drive all my thoughts to dream, — 
To dream of her voice singing 
The songs I love the best : 
Night will not let 
My heart forget 
Where she has made her nest ! 

[ 75 ] 

O Love, where art thou biding 

While hangs this moon on high ? 
Star in the twiHght hiding, 

Come forth and light the sky 
Above the ship slow gliding 
Over the southern sea : 
Night will not let 
My heart forget 
Love's eyes that shine for me ! 

[ 76 ] 


As Love and I went walking 
Along the sea's gray shore, 

We heard the green waves talking, 
And love was all their lore. 

The purple shadows shifted, 
And through the twilight long 

From singing stars there drifted 
Our sweet betrothal song. 

But once, in days long after, 
We walked there, Love and I ; 

The waves had lost their laughter, 
The stars were hushed on high 

And each remembered only 
A little voice — oh, years, 

How long they are, and lonely ! 
Oh, heart, how full of tears ! 

[ 77 ] 


My Love is like a Winter rose 

That sweetly blooms alone, 
That has of rivals none, and knows 

A beauty all her own. 

My Love is like a tender tune 

That wakens tender words. 
And fills December full of June, 

And brings again the birds. 

Her smile, my sun ; her voice, my song ; 

Her face, my flower of bliss ; 
Oh, who could find the Winter long 

With such a Love as this ! 

[ 78 ] 


Here are roses red, 

For their fragrance love them : 
When you bend your head 

Tenderly above them, 
To your own lips, sweet, 

Lift them up and hold them 
While their lips repeat 

What my heart has told them. 

Grant them of your grace. 

With your beauty bless them, 
Fold them to your face. 

Kiss them, and caress them. 
Brief their day, and so 

Only gladness give them, 
Yours the joy to know 

Love that shall outlive them. 

[ 79 ] 



Her greeting is a dulcet bell — 

Love's daybreak and delight ; 
Her smile is noon, and her farewell 

Leads in the stars at night. 
She is the sunrise and the gleam 

Of dew upon the rose, 
The vision that evokes the dream, 

The song in slumber's prose. 

Roses are the rhymes I wreathe — 

Take them, every one ; 
Love — the fragrance that you breathe. 

And your smile their sun. 
When the petals fall apart, 

Then in melody, 
You shall read a rose's heart, 

And the heart of me. 

[ 8° ] 



Dear Rose, what volumes it would need to hold 
The songs that poets have been fain to sing 
In praise of you, — the ruby in June's ring. 

Jewel of fragrance set in summer's gold ! 

What tender words of worship, since of old 
In Eden Love first found you blossoming, 
Have blest your beauty, hoping so to bring 

A touch of warmth unto a bosom cold ! 

Poets and Lovers there shall ever be 

So long as there are gardens where the vine 

Builds a green temple of felicity 

Within whose leaves is found your fragrant shrine. 

O sweet Saint Rose ! Dear flower of melody, — 
A lover's token, take this song of mine. 

[ 83 ] 


All day I hear along the sandy shore 

The melancholy music of the Sea ; 

The green-robed choir of Ocean sing to me, 
Chanting the legends of their ancient lore. 
I hear the tales of mariners of yore, 

Of ships gone down, of tempests blowing free ; 

I hear the mast, remembering the tree. 
Grieve for the grove and all its leaves once more. 

But when night comes and in the deep blue sky 'A 

Gather the stars above the fields of foam, -^ 

The music changes, and in fancy I ,'? 

Again the old familiar forests roam > 

And hear the mast's companions as they cry : •- 

Blow, Wind, and bring our captive brother home ! ;, 

[ 84 ] 


Thou feathered minstrel perched in yonder tree, 
Thou bird-magician in a blue-gray coat, 
Trickster of tune, thou canst repeat by rote 

Thy rivals' songs and win their loves to thee ! 

Song-sorcerer, who canst with melody 

Lure us to listen ; thou whose slender throat 
Is full of magic, bubbling note by note ; 

Mimic of music, sing thou on to me ! 

Chatter of blackbird, warble of the wren, 
Joy of the jay, and passion of the thrush, 
And every trill that ever bird has known, — 
I heard him jesting for a while ; and then, 
Softly upon the morning in a gush 
Of lyric love I heard him call his own. 

[ 8s ] 


In vain the quest : no mortal eyes may know 
The secret haunt wherein by day and night 
She shapes her dreams of audible delight 

And sends them forth to wander to and fro : 

Spirits of Sound, invisible they go 

To fill the world with wonder in their flight ; 
Celestial voices, from whose starry height 

Strange hints of song steal down to earth below. 

Listen and hear the rhythmic echoes fall, — 

The winds and waves and leaves and bees and birds, 
The blended harmony of reeds and strings, — 
Chorus and orchestra, — the voice and all 
The miracle of melody and words, — 

Music herself it is who dreams and sings ! 

[ 86 ] 


Hour after hour releAtlessly the sun 

Shriveled the leaves and parched the meadow grass 
The sky was yellow and like molten brass 

The heat poured down until the day was done. 

Red the round moon arose, and one by one 
Blossomed the stars and in the river's glass 
Beheld their beauty, but the breeze, alas ! 

Refused to break the web the spider spun. 

But with the dawn a little cloud drew near, 
Leading a host forth on the azure plain. 

A distant rumble, then a forest cheer, 

And then a gust that whirled the weather-vane ; 

And then, at last, — O melody most dear ! 
The soft alliteration of the rain. 

[ 87 ] 


Winged wanderer from clover meadows sweet, 
Where all day long beneath a smiling sky 
You drained the wild-flowers' cups of honey dry 

And heard the drowsy winds their love repeat, 

What idle zephyr, whispering deceit. 

Captured your heart and tempted you to fly 
Unto this noisy town and vainly pry 

Into the secrets of this busy street ? 

To me your unexpected presence brings 

A thought of fragrant pastures, buds and flowers. 
And sleepy brooks, and cattle in the fold ; 
And, watching as you soar on trembling wings, 
I think for those who toil through weary hours 
You are a type of their uncertain gold ! 



Deep in the woods, amid the giant trees 
It lies alone within an open space, 
Beloved in summer by the sylvan race 

Of God's best poets — birds and golden bees ; 

Diana's mirror, full of memories 

Of all the nameless wonder of her face 
And of the myriad jewel-stars that grace 

Orion's glory and the Pleiades. 

Behold it now, all ghostly white and still, 
Shut in the shadow of the ice and snow, 
A solitary, sad, forsaken thing ; 
Bereft of beauty, marred and dark until 
Diana comes again and looks to know 

Her luring smile — the loveliness of Spring ! 


There came a day in winter when the sun 

Reached down and swept the world all clean of snow ; 
When captive streams long hushed in icy woe 

Escaped with song again to dance and run : 

Between the purple hills the vales were spun 
With silver mist, and, dreaming in the glow, 
The trees and vines were tremulous as though 

They felt the buds unfolding one by one. 

Just for a day this glamour touched the dearth 
And dreariness of life, — one vision brief 

Of joy that lit the sorrow of the earth, — 

Then passed, and with it hope went and belief : 

So Love once came and with a voice of mirth 
Betrayed my heart and left it dumb with grief. 

[ 9° ] 



Asleep within her marble room she lies, 

And dreams of days to come when she shall go 
Across the meadows in the morning glow, 

Song on her lips, and gladness in her eyes : 

In dreams she sees again the warm, blue skies. 

And breathes the fragrance which the soft gales blow 
From trees whose blossoms, like belated snow, 

Have filled the orchards with a sweet surprise. 

So shall she dream, and slumber on until 

The first faint whispers of the south wind brmg 
The shy anemones, all white with fear. 
To look upon her in her chamber still ; 

Then, waking, hear the bluebird blithely sing 
To welcome in the Daybreak of the Year ! 

[ 91 ] 


{Old Spanish Cathedral, St. Augustine, Florida) 

High in the old cathedral tower they hung, — 
Four ancient bells, the bronze arpeggio 
That called to prayer the gray monks long ago, 

And marked the hour while mass was said and sung. 

Over a land of fragrant flowers they flung 
Petals of music that were wont to blow 
Out of the rose of Time, whereof we know 

Naught save how sweet it is and ever young. 

Listen ! across the midnight comes their call, • — 
Twelve in succession sound the bell-notes clear : 
A day has gone ; another day, begun. 
Awake, I hear them saying as they fall : 
VaUy Hispania ! Day of shadows drear ! 
AvCy America ! Day of joy and sun ! 

[ 92 ] 




Out of the scabbard of the night, 

By God's hand drawn, 
Flashes his shining sword of light. 

And lo, — the dawn ! 


In the black jungle of the sky now wakes 
The Lightning's writhing brood of fiery snakes. 
And lion Thunder from his lair of cloud 
Startles the dusky world with challenge loud. 


Up from the underworld the shadows crowd 
And ply with noiseless fingers at the loom 

Whereon they weave the star-embroidered cloud 
That screens the door of Day's new-builded tomb. 

[ 95 


Over the rim, a fiery ball, 
God's hand the golden sun lets fall ; 
Then from the blue deeps of the skies 
The myriad white bubbles rise. 


The bugling winds their solemn dirges blow 
Across a dreary waste of foam-white waves. 

Here is the ocean cemetery. Lo, 
The phantom head-stones of the myriad graves ! 


Strolling along the granite coast I caught 
From lips invisible this message clear : — 

Without my strength the ocean s rage were naughty 
And I am but the whisper in thine ear ! 

[ 96 ] 


Far in the distance looms a ship's dark hull, 
Aimlessly tossing on an angry sea ; 

And, circling round, one solitary gull, — 
White ponderer of this black mystery ! 


In agony of death throughout the night 
The frenzied monarch tossed upon his bed 

Whence rose at dawn, mysterious and white, 
A ghost, — the spectre of the mighty dead. 


Implacable and stem, the captive. Hate, 
In silence sits, too anger-blind to see 

Love's shining figure at his prison gate, 
Longing to hear him bid her turn the key. 

[ 97 ] 


Launched in the darkness on an unknown sea, 
A plaything of the winds and waves, I drift, 

And ponder what the shores of Life may be — 
What harbor welcome when the shadows lift. 


Creeds for the credulous ; but as for me, 
I choose to keep a mind alert and free. 
Not Faith but Truth I set me for a goal : 
Toward that shining mark God speed thee. Soul ! 


For all Philosophy may teach, 
Only so far can Knowledge reach : 
All that we know from breath to breath 
Is Life and its great question — Death. 

[ 98 ] 


Throughout the long, enchanted summer hours, 
In treasuries of honey-wealth untold, 

Here in their bright metropolis of flowers 
The banker bees are busy with their gold. 


Upon the walls the graceful Ivy climbs 

And wraps with green the ancient ruin gray : 

Romance it is, and these her leafy rhymes 
Writ on the granite page of yesterday. 


Here is the cloth whereon the dew and sun 
Fashion their bright embroideries of bloom ; 

For dreams a pillow, and, when dreams are done, 
A fragrant cover for the dreamless tomb. 

[ 99 ] 


Screening her face of loveliness behind 
The garden's leafy curtain, waits the Rose 

For the enamored Nightingale to find 
A lyric hidden in his book of prose. 


Into the slumber of the Day there came 
The vision of a spirit winged with flame, 
And down the fragrant air one butterfly - 
Her golden dream — sailed indolently by. 


Deep in the ashes one live ember 
Lingers two similes to show : 

June in the arms of old December, 
A red rose in a drift of snow. 

[ 100 ] 


Within the stone Sahara of the Town 
A green oasis lies the open Square : 

Hark to the noisy caravans of brown, 
Intrepid Sparrows, — Arabs of the air ! 


River or sea, the voice is still the same. 
Each curving water-lip the word repeats, 

Forever rumoring the poet's name, 
And murmuring melodiously — Keats. 


Caught in a crevice of the marble tomb, 
A fragile plant uplifts its hand of bloom, 
And poised thereon a butterfly takes breath 
Fantastic fellowship of Life and Death ! 

[ loi ] 


Hark at the lips of this pink whorl of shell 
And you shall hear the ocean's surge and roar 

So in the quatrain's measure, written well, 
A thousand lines shall all be sung in four. 


This be my wish : let all my lines 
Across the pages run like vines ; 
The words, their shining blossoms be ; 
The book, a field of melody. 

[ 102 ] 

(Cite S^itier^ibe ^tt4^ 

ElectrotyPed and printed by H. O. Houghton &' Co. 
Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A,